Stroll Down Baker Street
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Series of 221b drabbles. latest 21 and 22, Watson hears an odd noise in Baker Street.
1. Chapter 1

**_My mom warned me about bandwagons, but that was before I realized KCS was driving it. So here is my own 221b drabble._**

* * *

There is one aspect of my profession which I dislike. It occurs after every link in the chain of deduction has been observed and tested, when all my nets are laid. At that moment there is nothing more to do then wait for my quarry to appear and spring the trap.

I hate waiting. Impatience is a vice that I will freely admit to possessing and in great quantities, the reason being that I detest inactivity.

My dear Watson and I have suffered many of these waits together and they never grow easier, our only relief to the nerve-wracking tension is the consolation we take in each other's company.

This occasion was no different.

I smoked almost incessantly but it was the good Doctor who appeared to be having the worst time of it. He paced the length of the small room, fidgeting with his cuffs, cravat, his pocketwatch, folding his hands behind his back, then in front.

I look at my own watch.

"Not long now Watson."

He nods and continues to fidget, and after an eternity of moments we are called.

Watson's face alights as he spots her at the other end of the small chapel.

"Look Holmes." he whispers though he hardly seems aware that I am even present.

I look.

"Indeed old fellow, she is very beautiful."


	2. Begin

"I say, Holmes."

My friend froze in the midst of his lecture, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other upraised before him.

The eyes of everyone in the room that had been on him a moment ago, turned on me instead, most surprised and some outraged and irritated at the interruption at this explanation of the case.

All noise in the room and indeed just outside it seemed to stop. The venerable wind and bright chirping of the birds ceased, and all our surroundings seemed to hold its' breath in anticipation as to what the great consulting detective's reaction would be towards this sacrelige.

Slowly my friend turned, his brows set in a low dark line, his own annoyance perfectly clear, for I was not in the habit of interrupting those presentations that he was so fond of relating at the end of his cases.

"_What_ is it Watson?" he asked rather sharply.

I swallowed, and shifted slightly.

Still there was nothing for it now. I cleared my throat.

"I am sorry to interrupt Holmes…but you are wrong."

The brows flew towards the ceiling. "Really…pray elaborate Watson."

I sighed, suddenly nervous and acutely aware of the feel of every glare and of the silence that raged through the room.

When would I ever learn to keep quiet?

I began.


	3. Bah

My friend Watson is the most sentimental of men. What with his romantic, lurid writings, and his soft heart which more often than not biases his judgment during our cases, I have become resigned to the fact that he will never fully understand my role as the cold, reasoning machine.

I have also grown accustomed to his little fits of whimsy, when he attempts to introduce me to the monotonous and ridiculous activities which he terms; "Normal."

One of these is holidays.

And so it was on the 24th of December, as the evening was growing late, that I found myself plagued by him yet again.

"No."

"Oh come on, Holmes, its all in good fun. It will bring back fond memories."

"I have no memories of such an event."

"I don't believe it. You've never been?!"

"No."

"But Holmes it's a tradition, everyone does it."

"I tell you Watson that I have no desire to parade up and down slick streets in this frigid air, fumbling with frozen fingers at my violin while you and half a dozen others sing very loudly and very poorly."

Watson sighed and looked at me with a despairing expression.

Then he placed my violin into my ungloved hands and pushed me out the door.

"Its only for an hour or two…we'll have fun."

"Bahumbug."


	4. Brash

**I have to apologize for the amount of angst that will be in the next few pieces. KCS and I challenged each other to an angst-a-thon last night so we'll both be posting rather tense and sometimes bloody pieces. **

**Be assured we're not just bloodthirsty, we're competetive.**

* * *

"WATSON!...WATSON!"

Sherlock Holmes burst through the tenth door in the foul villain's hideout, his eyes scanning the floor of the cellar, trying to penetrate the gloom.

"Mr. Holmes!"

Lestrade's shout made him turn and fly back up the hall.

The inspector was standing on the threshold of another doorway…this one leading to a small storage cupboard.

And there…lying among the mops and brooms and other tools.

"Watson!"

Holmes shoved the inspector aside and knelt hurriedly, taking hold of the bound figure with reckless abandon, drawing him out, drawing his penknife to cut the cords that bit deep into the Doctor's wrists and ankles.

With shaking hands he removed the smothering gag.

Watson was pale and cold, a gash and a bruise on his forehead told how he had been taken. His sunken eyes were closed.

"That was a very stupid thing to do Watson!" The detective growled angrily, clinging tightly to him.

Watson did not answer, but only shivered and swallowed convulsively.

Holmes lowered his face to rest against the light colored head.

"You bloody idiot…that message was for me…you should have sent for Lestrade."

The Doctor stirred feebly and Holmes clenched one of his cold hands in his.

"_Holmes?"_ The voice was hoarse and spoke of dehydration…but it was mercifully alert.

"Yes my dear Watson…why must you be so brash?"


	5. Broken

I glanced at my watch for perhaps the fifth time, then out at the dark landscape.

Where in blazes was he?

As if in answer I heard a sudden baying and snarling of the dogs and a figure belted from the house across the lawn and toward the buggy, something clutched in his hand.

My heart leapt into my throat when he suddenly fell with a strangled cry.

"Watson!"

Abandoning our ride I scrambled toward him, he was turning over slowly, his face set in a grimace.

In an instant I saw what was wrong and swore loudly reaching for his foot, and the steel-jawed trap that enclosed it.

"Hold on Holmes!" I seized the jaws of the trap and forced them apart, pulling his foot free.

The dogs were almost upon us and the shouts of men followed them. I pulled Holmes' arm round my shoulder and lifted him to his feet eliciting another gasp of pain.

Steeling myself, I fairly dragged him to the trap and lifted him inside, before whipping up the horse.

After a distance I dared to stop and turned back to Holmes, who was pale and gasping.

I drew my knife and cut the thick, blood-soaked boot away to examine the damage.

I lifted my head and met his gaze with a shaky breath.

"Broken."


	6. Bin

The cab could not go fast enough and it was only too long before it finally pulled to a stop and I burst from it and straight into the atrocious den.

The fumes were disgustingly thick, coloring the air. I pushed past the rows of beds that lined the walls and the poor wretches that crouched around the braziers on the floor.

One of the attendants hurried up to me and I seized the fellow by his collar, I took out my gun and cocked it.

"Where is he?" I growled into his suddenly terrified face.

"You are being paid to keep him here, you are already accomplice to kidnap, tell me where he is!"

With less persuasion then I would have thought the fellow led me swiftly to a room in the back and pointed to one prone figure in a corner.

I knelt beside him, undid the ropes on his hands and felt his narrow wrist for a pulse.

It was there, thin and thready but present.

"Holmes."

He moaned softly and stirred, his large-pupiled eyes finding my face.

He tried to speak, managed a hoarse croak and frowned in frustration.

I sighed and lifted him, pulling off my coat to wrap around his thin shoulders.

"When we get home, I am throwing your morocco case in the bin."


	7. Blue

"I wish Holmes were here."

"Same here Doctor."

I felt my way carefully down the rather worn steps, listening as the rubble knocked aside by my feet rattled down them.

Then I heard a sound which made my blood run cold, the sound of small objects striking the water.

Lachlan saw me tense and gripped my shoulder.

"Think its about time you got that light out mate."

I lifted the shutter of the darklantern and the darkness was suddenly penetrated with light.

We were in a high-ceilinged room, lined with stone, and the floor several inches deep in water where it had leaked in from the Thames just outside…and there, with one hand chained up against the wall, nearly immersed in the disgusting liquid.

"Renie!"

Never had a I heard such a tone from the seaman, within an instant he had swept past me down the steps and waded through the water to the writer's side.

The lad's head lolled and his limp body flowed with the water.

I hurried to join them and gasped as the cold liquid penetrated my boots…it was freezing.

Lachlan shoved Holmes' picklock into the manacle around Haight's wrist, and caught him as he fell free, lifting the slim form into his brawny arms.

Renie's brown eyes flickered. "Hallo chum."

Lachlan sighed shakily, "You'reblue."


	8. Brusque

Never had such a thing occurred at the Diogenes.

There were two of them, dressed as common ruffians who obviously had no place in such a venerable establishment.

Both reeked of the streets, more particularly the stables and when I confronted them at the door the taller of the two addressed me supporting his unsteady companion whom I could only assume was intoxicated.

"I am sorry _sir_ but this is…"

"I am quite aware of the nature of this establishment." the fellow said in a voice and manner that I would hardly have suspected from one such as him. He had drawn himself up to his full height, his entire bearing had become imperious and demanding, his gray eyes flashed.

"I need to speak with Mycroft Holmes this instant."

"Mr. Holmes is engaged in very important…"

The man growled and pulled his companion's arm tighter about his shoulders, eliciting a grunt of pain.

I turned in surprise to look at the second fellow and saw that under his stubble that he was almost pristine white, and his face set in a grimace, his brows knitted, his hands clutched about his side.

Something dark flowed over his hand and dripped onto the floor.

"_Holmes." _ He whispered.

"Mycroft!" the second shouted.

This time I did not object when he pushed past me brusquely.


	9. Breathe

"You're instincts were correct brother mine." I said, holding onto Watson's shoulders as Mycroft's physician cut away the worn jacket and shirt that had been part of my friend's disguise.

Watson groaned and stirred, only half-conscious from the pain and the morphine injection.

"Lie still old fellow." I squeezed his shoulder.

He whimpered and settled back, clenching his jaw.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, still quite white from the shock we had given him.

"Is it not obvious? I am sorry for disturbing your sanctuary like this but it did not seem safe to return to Baker Street just yet."

"Quite right, quite right." My brother reassured patting my shoulder awkwardly with his dough-like hand.

The physician was examining the wound itself, touching the penknife with gentle, practiced fingers.

Watson let out a choked cry and nearly twisted out of my grip, trying to curl in on himself. The doctor had to catch hold of his hands to keep them from the wound.

"Its alright Watson!" I snapped in concern.

The physician laid Watson's clenching hands on his chest and looked up at us.

"It hasn't perforated any organs…although I suspect he could tell that if he let you bring him here. The damage is minor, it went in at an angle and stuck against this rib here."

"Thank heaven." I breathed.


	10. Blankets

"Mary?"I called into the house, which despite its' brightly lit rooms appeared to be unoccupied.

An answering call came from the sitting room and I hurriedly divested myself of coat, hat and stick, before sticking my head in.

The smile dropped from my face when I saw that Mary was kneeling beside a figure lying prone before the fire.

My wife turned her pale face to me.

"Oh John, thank heaven's!"

I hurried to kneel beside her, taking my bag with me and peeling back the blanket to take in the shivering form and pale countenance of my friend.

"He wouldn't let me send for Anstruther and there was no way to reach you in this fog. I'm so sorry!"

"You did fine Mary…where is he injured?"

"His shoulder. He just staggered in John, asking for you…and before I had a chance to help him he collapsed to the floor. I thought it best not to move him."

I peeled away Holmes' jacket and shirt and the makeshift bandage Mary had applied.

"A bullet…its missed his artery. Mary I'll need some water."

My wife rose in an instant and hurried off, leaving me alone with the half-conscious man.

His eyes flickered and roved the unfamiliar room, before coming to rest on my face.

"Watson…" he groaned and shifted beneath the blankets.


	11. Bed

"Holmes." I laid a hand on my friend's good shoulder.

He stirred sleepily, his eyes opening. "Hmm?"

"I have your dinner here." I moved to help him sit up against the pillows, careful not to jar the injury.

Holmes took the bowl and I sat back with my pipe.

"Its your own fault old fellow."

Holmes sighed and grumbled under his breath. I grinned, fiddling with my pipe.

"It's a nuisance not having you at Baker street Watson."

"Well you can always come here."

"And so I have."

"Yes…and now you're guaranteed a decent interval of bedrest for once…now eat that soup or Mary will have my hide."

My friend made a face, lifting the spoon with his left hand, eyeing the mixture dubiously.

"What is it?"

"Chiken."

He sighed.

"When I complained of your medical stringency Watson, I had no idea that you had learned it from your wife."

"I always thought she would make an admirable addition to the profession."

"No doubt." Holmes said, though his tone suggested that he thought otherwise.

"I'll take you home tomorrow morning with strict instructions for Mrs. Hudson. You can rest here tonight, Mary and I will make do."

"Make do?"

"The sitting room is quite comfy."

Holmes' face blanked, then he viewed the room awkwardly.

I laughed. "Yes Holmes…that is our bed."


	12. Brandy

Horsemen are different, as varied as the animals they ride, and the horse and rider most suited to one another are ones of equal temperament.

This was apparently unknown by the stablehand who selected Watson's horse.

No sooner had we reached the moor then some idiot blew a hunting horn and the beast was off before my friend had time to ready himself.

I saw him fall, and spurred my own mount towards him.

"Watson!"

He was already stirring, trying to sit up, then he froze with a gasp and fell back.

"Watson?" I knelt beside him…and froze when I saw that his right arm was hanging limply from his side.

He looked at me.

"Dislocated…Put it back."

"But…Watson…"

"You know how, please Holmes!"

Steeling myself I seized hold of my friend's arm and positioned it as gently as I could.

"Ready?"

He nodded and I twisted.

A strangled cry broke from his lips and he went dead white.

I ignored it and continued to pull until at last there was a loud snap and Watson went limp.

I rubbed the sweat from my face then drew out my flask, forcing it past his teeth.

He choked, sputtered, then opened his eyes.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded his voice faint. "At least it was not my left…that's good brandy."


	13. Bomb

Holmes leaned back against his seat, puffing on his pipe and characteristically ignoring the 'non-smoking' sign.

"Are you satisfied?" I asked, stretching out myself and enjoying the space that our compartment provided.

"Quite…I was confident from the start that…"

I never found out what he would say next…for at that moment we were violently torn from our comfortable lives by a great force which even to this day I find it difficult to describe properly. Then all was black.

"Watson!...Watson!"

Hands were groping at me, dragging me back to consciousness, my head and chest ached, my leg was in agony, I could feel hot, thick blood running down my forehead.

I tried to move and was assailed by a deep, shuddering pain that ran through my body, confusion clouded my mind.

What had happened?

I heard someone moaning nearby, I realized it was me.

I knew it was Holmes pulling me from the great weight that had settled over me, knew from his trembling grip and frantic cries that I should reassure him.

I fought my eyes open and tried to focus on his face.

"Watson?"

"What…What?" was all I could manage to stutter, his arms clasped tightly about me and I realized that it was not only fear but shock that made him shake.

"The engine's gone…that was a bomb."


	14. Bones

He tried to pull me free of the wreckage and a scream tore from my lips.

"STOP HOLMES! DON'T!"

He dropped me as though burned.

"I'm sorry!"

I gasped and sat up slowly, trying to manage the pain that radiated from the limb, it was surely broken.

"S'alright…are you hurt?"

"A few bruises Watson." He stripped off his jacket, or what remained of it and folded it beneath my head, pushing me back. "Can…can I take it off of you?"

I nodded and he moved around to my foot. After a few moments there was another flash of pain as he lifted it and a crash as he let it fall to the side.

Then he was at my head again, pressing a cloth against the small gash on my brow. "Where else are you hurt? You're neck at all? Ribs?"

"No. Just the leg…are there others?"

"Yes, plenty, I believe we were only going around thirty. But you are hardly in shape to treat them my dear Watson."

I laughed, but was far from any real humor. The agony from my limb was almost crippling, my face was covered with dry blood and my nose assailed with its' metallic scent.

I clung to my friend's hand and he made no word of complaint, though I was probably crushing the bones.


	15. Black

I lay back gasping for breath while Holmes secured the last knot on the makeshift splint.

"How's that old boy?"

I nodded tightly, not quite ready to unclench my jaw or open my eyes.

I heard a sigh he laid a cold hand on my bandaged forehead…at least this time it was steady.

"There's a house just over the hill Watson…I'm going to see if I can borrow a trap."

I tensed, strongly disliking the idea of being left alone and virtually immobile. But I had little choice in the matter.

His hand patted my shoulder. "I'll be just a moment old fellow."

His footsteps hurried off at a run and faded, I lay back and tried to rest.

I jerked back to full alertness when another hand touched my shoulder. I knew from its' feel that it was not Holmes'.

I opened my eyes and tried to sit up, to move away, but was forced back.

"its' allright sir. I'm a doctor, I'm here to help."

"Wait."

But the needle was already being inserted and the sedative spread through my system putting me out almost at once, and with it a numbness that dispelled the pain.

"Andrew's get a stretcher down here!"

I opened my mouth to object, to explain.

"Its' alright lad."

For the second time all went black.


	16. Bored

"…AND AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED…"

i was dimly aware of a very loud and very familiar voice, raised over the objections of several others.

"Sir, you cannot just..."

"What is going on here?"

This newest voice rang with an authority that rivaled that of the first. I groaned and struggled through the medicinal-created fog that clouded my mind.

The first voice spoke again, no longer raised in pitch but tight with apprehension and anger.

"You have something that belongs to me sir!"

I was covered in ridiculously light covers that could only belong to a hospital, my leg ached slightly but there was no evidence of the sharp pain from before. I opened my eyes and glanced about the sterile ward, to the door where I could see a small crowd.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"A friend of mine."

I could see his tall form among the others.

"Holmes." I called out and was somewhat alarmed by the hoarse, weak state of my own voice.

His gaze fixed on me like that of a blood hound and he pushed his way through to my side.

He was covered from head to foot in mud.

He smiled shakily.

"I thought I told you not to wander off my dear Watson."

I laughed.

"Sorry Holmes…I must have gotten a bit bored."


	17. Below

"There's no time Watson!"

I looked down at the black disturbed water, and shook like a leaf, torn before my crippling fear and obeying the imperious voice of my friend.

The flames licked closer behind us and in an instant Holmes made the decision from me, wrapping one sinewy arm round my chest, pining my arms to my sides. He toppled sideways off the ship, pulling me with him and I had only the time to give one terrified shout before the water engulfed us.

My mind went blank with panic as the waves closed round us and I fought desperately against the restraining arm, swallowing the water in a quest for air.

We broke the surface and I began to cough.

Holmes' voice sounded in my ear. "Breathe Watson!"

I choked, gasped and choked again. Water lapped at my neck and chin I struggled again, trying to get my arms free.

"Hold still Watson! Stop it!"

Why could I not believe him? Why could I not trust him?

My struggles began to pull us down and I choked again as I sank.

"It's alright Watson I swear." His voice broke off in his own bout of coughing.

A wave overtook us, passing over our heads, I couldn't breathe and by Holmes' frantic movements neither could he.

The blackness loomed below.


	18. Better

We we're going to drown and I almost regretted not having something to knock Watson unconscious with.

The thought immediately shamed me and I tightened my grip round my struggling friend, making for the surface again.

We broke and I heard Watson begin to cough and breathe again. The ship was still aflame and might not sink for some time…

Could I perhaps….but could I do such a cruel thing to my friend?

Did I have any choice?

As my friend's frantic movements began again I realized that I did not, it was too far to wrestle him all the way back to shore.

He had to do it on his own.

Thoroughly ashamed of myself I took a firmer grip on my friend and held his head just above the waves, pinning his arms, speaking in his ear.

"Watson…Watson it's alright old fellow."

He continued to struggle I continued to speak, both of us growing steadily weaker.

"Watson, it's alright. It's alright, I have you."

I choked and coughed as I sank and swallowed water, but I managed to keep him afloat…and eventually his struggles lessened.

He fixed me with a pair of terrified hazel eyes.

"H-holmes I can't!"

I let his arms free, keeping an arm firmly round his chest.

"I'll help you, you can learn, no time better."


	19. Brave

We crawled forward onto the bank, both of us wheezing.

Watson was shaking like a leaf, not only from cold and exhaustion but from fear, he pressed his face hard against the solid sand.

I struggled to get my breath for several moments then pulled myself closer.

"Watson."

He lifted his head, more aptly then I would have expected, and fixed me with that same gaze.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded readily.

"Thank you."

"You did very well."

He shivered.

"You're still afraid?" I asked, still unable to understand how such a fear could cloud one's judgement like it did my level-headed companion.

"Yes…I'm terrified."

"But you did it Watson…you swam."

"I know." he took a shaky breath.

"Could you do it again do you think?"

There was a very long pause before he nodded again.

"I think you've broken the panic…but I'll always be afraid of it." He clenched his hands in the sand, as though to grip the solid shore.

"The panic is one thing…the fear is quite another. I know how now…but by heaven I like it no better."

Another long silence and the he spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head.

"No, I'm sorry you had to face that."

"Perhaps it was time I did…silly"

I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Not my dear Watson…brave."


	20. A Better Idea

**K, I did some research and this is a total possibility…I just can't get enough of the early morning scenes.**

It was the early hours of the morning, just before the dawn broke, creeping over the rooftops of London to bathe the city in a soft, pearly light, providing that it was visible through the morning smog.

Watson lay snugly in his bed at 221b Baker Street, still fuzzy with sleep, listening to the soft ticks of the clock on his table.

The clock in question was a gift of apology from his friend after his last had been destroyed when he had hurled it across the room toward Holmes' head.

It had not been the clock's fault, it had been Holmes', for it was the fourth morning in a row that he had seen fit to wake Watson at that absurd hour and demand his company on a case.

When it seemed there would be no repeat of the episode Watson allowed himself sleep once more.

That was until the new clock erupted in a clanging noise loud enough to wake the dead.

Holmes popped his head in, drawn by the thumps and shouts of alarm from his friend's room.

He popped back out just as quickly when the new clock followed the path of its predecessor.

Perhaps getting one of those new fangled alarm clocks had not been such a good idea after all.

The water pitcher was better.


	21. Beethoven

I have heard some remarkable sounds coming from our sitting room at Baker Street, but this had to be one of the strangest so far.

Curious, I set down my pen and turned round in my chair to look for the source. It was of a fairly high pitch, though far from being obnoxious (like the whistling of a tea kettle) it had a familiar, even pleasant quality that I could not quite lay my finger on. I felt as though I'd heard it before.

I glanced over at Holmes' chemical table and saw that the burner was off and none of his chemicals steaming or bubbling.

A second glance toward the settee revealed that my friend had not moved either, but lay beneath the crumpled newspaper he had fallen asleep under early that morning.

I got to my feet, frowning as the sound changed again taking on a different pattern…almost…almost like music.

"Holmes…Holmes." I nudged my friend and he jerked awake with a grunt, emerging from beneath the paper and blinking in confusion.

"Eh? What is it Watson…wass wrong?"

"Do you hear that?"

Holmes looked at me in puzzlement, and then frowned as the sound reached his ear as well.

His brow furrowed deeply, and I saw a shock of recognition enter his eyes.

"Well?"

"Watson…that sounds exactly like Beethoven."


	22. Bravo

"Beethoven?"

"Fifth Symphony to be exact."

"I've…I've never heard anything like it."

"Neither have I, Watson."

We both listened for a moment as the symphony, for my friend was correct it was indeed a symphony, continued for several moments trilling at the flourishes.

Holmes frowned and as quietly as he could put aside the paper and slid off the settee to his knees, padding forward across the floor. I followed at a half crouch, trying to see what he was getting at.

My ears picked up the strains of a rather bawdy tune that I recognized to be the "Long Eddy Waltz."

"Holmes…what…"

He motioned me to silence as he came to his desk and peered slowly around the corner of the polished wood.

I saw his eyebrows leap up towards his hairline and at once looked myself.

I had to struggle to keep a laugh of amusement, and in truth amazement, from escaping my mouth and spoiling the scene that played out before us.

When at last the second song ended I smiled.

"I say Basil, that was splendid, I didn't know you could play."

The mouse whirled round, lowering the very tiny violin.

"What do you say, Holmes?" I elbowed my dumbstruck friend.

He opened his mouth and made a squeaking noise not unlike that of the rodent himself.

"Bravo?"


	23. Bicuspid

"What the devil happened to my red leech!?"

The good Doctor sighed, but could not keep a smile from his face at the sound of that cynical, biting voice which he had never thought to hear again. To think, that only a few short hours ago, Sherlock Holmes had been dead to him and the world, and now he was bouncing amicably about their old rooms like a child at Christmas.

He had spent the last half hour prowling about the sitting room, sitting in every chair, trying every pipe, playing snatches of tunes on his violin (only to toss it down again a moment later) and exclaiming over every one of its rather ambiguous and unusual memorabilia.

And he insisted on involving his newly regained best friend as well, calling his attention at every rediscovery with words like. "Watson look here!" and "Do you remember this?!"

Until at last Watson had collapsed into a seat in exhaustion, contentedly watching. (He had to spring up again and switch at Holmes' exclamation of "That is _my _chair! Sit in your own!").

Holmes had eventually gravitated to his bedroom where he had made the preceding statement upon discovering that his possession was indeed missing.

Watson did not look forward to his reaction when he discovered Mrs. Hudson had also thrown out Johnson's Bicuspid.

**Yes I blatantly admit to stealing a line from the play, but it fit so nicely I couldn't resist. And like KCS said, its all in tribute anyway.**


End file.
